University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH 
ENTERS  INTO  HEAVEN  AND 
OTHER  POEMS  BY 


NICHOLAS  VACHEL  LINDSAY 


NEW  FORK  /  MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


Copyright  fpfj  by 
Mitchell  Kenncrley 


Printed  in  America 


This  book  is  dedicated  to 

DR.  ARTHUR  PAUL  WAKEFIELD 

and 
OLIVE   LINDSAY  WAKEFIELD 

Missionaries  in  China 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS  INTO  HEAVEN  I 

THE  DRUNKARDS  IN  THE  STREET  5 

THE  CITY  THAT  WILL  NOT  REPENT  6 

THE  TRAP  9 

WHERE  IS  DAVID,  THE  NEXT  KING  OF  ISRAEL?  12 

ON  READING  OMAR  KHAYYAM  14 

THE  BEGGAR'S  VALENTINE  16 

HONOR  AMONG  SCAMPS  19 

THE  GAMBLERS  2O 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  NOWHERE  22 

UPON  RETURNING  TO  THE  COUNTRY  ROAD  24 

THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CLOWN  26 

SPRINGFIELD  MAGICAL  28 

INCENSE  29 

THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  ROSE  AND  THE  LOTOS  3O 

KING  ARTHUR'S  MEN  HAVE  COME  AGAIN  32 

FOREIGN  MISSIONS  IN  BATTLE  ARRAY  34 

STAR  OF  MY  HEART  36 

LOOK  YOU,  I'LL  GO  PRAY  38 

AT  MASS  39 

HEART  OF  GOD  40 

THE  EMPTY  BOATS  41 

WITH  A  BOUQUET  OF  TWELVE  ROSES  42 

ST.  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI  43 


Contents 


PAGE 

BUDDHA  44 

A  PRAYER  TO  ALL  THE  DEAD  AMONG  MINE  OWN  PEOPLE  45 

TO  REFORMERS  IN  DESPAIR  46 

WHY  I  VOTED  THE  SOCIALIST  TICKET  47 

TO  THE  UNITED  STATES  SENATE  49 

THE  KNIGHT  IN  DISGUISE  52 

THE  WIZARD  IN  THE  STREET  55 

THE  EAGLE  THAT  IS  FORGOTTEN  58 

SHAKESPEARE  60 

MICHAELANGELO  6 I 

TITIAN  62 

LINCOLN  63 

THE  CORNFIELDS  64 

SWEET  BRIARS  OP  THE  STAIRWAYS  65 

FANTASIES  AND  WHIMS: — 

THE  FAIRY  BRIDAL  HYMN  67 

THE  POTATO'S  DANCE  68 

HOW  A  LITTLE  GIRL  SANG  7O 

GHOSTS  IN  LOVE  71 

THE  QUEEN  OF  BUBBLES  72 
THE  TREE  OF  LAUGHING  BELLS,  OR  THE  WINGS  OF  THE 

MORNING  74 

SWEETHEARTS  OF  THE  YEAR  82 

THE  SORCERESS  85 

CAUGHT  IN  A  NET  86 

EDEN  IN  WINTER  87 

GENESIS  91 

QUEEN  MAB  IN  THE  VILLAGE  94 

THE  DANDELION  99 

THE  LIGHT  O'  THE  MOON  IOO 

A  NET  TO  3NARE  THE  MOONLIGHT  IO6 


Contents 


PAGE 

BEYOND  THE  MOON  IO7 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  GARDEN-TOAD  1 09 

A  GOSPEL  OF  BEAUTY: — 

THE  PROUD  FARMER  112 

THE  ILLINOIS  VILLAGE  114 

ON  THE  BUILDING  OF  SPRINGFIELD  117 


The  author  wishes  to  thank  the  editors  of 
Poetry,  The  Outlook,  The  Independent,  The 
American  Magazine,  and  Farm  and  Fireside 
(Springfield,  Ohio),  for  permission  to  reprint 
poems  included  in  this  volume. 


GENERAL   WILLIAM    BOOTH 
ENTERS   INTO   HEAVEN 


[To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  The  Blood  of  the 
Lamb  with  indicated  instrument] 

I 

[Bass  drum  beaten  loudly.'} 

BOOTH  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the 

Lamb?) 
The    Saints    smiled    gravely    and    they    said: 

"He's  come." 

(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
Walking  lepers  followed,  rank  on  rank, 
Lurching  bravoes  from  the  ditches  dank, 
Drabs    from   the   alleyways   and   drug  fiends 

pale — 

Minds  still  passion-ridden,  soul-powers  frail: — - 
Vermin-eaten  saints  with  mouldy  breath, 
Unwashed  legions  with  the  ways  of  Death — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 


General  William  Booth 


[Banjos.] 

Every  slum  had  sent  its  half-a-score 
The  round  world  over.     (Booth  had  groaned 

for  more.) 

Every  banner  that  the  wide  world  flies 
Bloomed  with  glory  and  transcendent  dyes. 
Big-voiced  lasses  made  their  banjos  bang, 
Tranced,  fanatical  they  shrieked  and  sang: — 
"Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?" 
Hallelujah!     It  was  queer  to  see 
Bull-necked  convicts  with  that  land  make  free. 
Loons  with  trumpets  blowed  a  blare,  blare, 

blare 

On,  on  upward  thro7  the  golden  air! 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 


II 


[Bass  drum  slower  and  softer.] 
Booth  died  blind  and  still  by  Faith  he  trod, 
Eyes  still  dazzled  by  the  ways  of  God. 
Booth  led  boldly,  and  he  looked  the  chief 
Eagle  countenance  in  sharp  relief, 
Beard  a-flying,  air  of  high  command 
Unabated  in  that  holy  land. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay 


[Sweet  flute  music .] 

Jesus  came  from  out  the  court-house  door, 
Stretched  his  hands  above  the  passing  poor. 
Booth  saw  not,  but  led  his  queer  ones  there 
Round    and    round    the    mighty    court-house 

square. 

Yet  in  an  instant  all  that  blear  review 
Marched  on  spotless,  clad  in  raiment  new. 
The  lame  were  straightened,  withered  limbs 

uncurled 
And  blind  eyes  opened  on  a  new,  sweet  world. 

[Bass  drum  louder.'} 
Drabs  and  vixens  in  a  flash  made  whole ! 
Gone  was  the  weasel-head,  the  snout,  the  jowl ! 
Sages  and  sibyls  now,  and  athletes  clean, 
Rulers  of  empires,  and  of  forests  green! 

[Grand  chorus  of  all  instruments.    Tambour- 
ines to  the  foreground.'} 
The    hosts   were   sandalled,    and  their  wings 

were  fire ! 

(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
But  their  noise  played  havoc  with  the  angel- 
choir. 

(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
O,  shout  Salvation !     It  was  good  to  see 


General  William  Booth 


Kings  and  Princes  by  the  Lamb  set  free. 
The  banjos  rattled  and  the  tambourines 
Jing-jing-jingled  in  the  hands  of  Queens. 

[Reverently  sung,  no  instruments.'] 
And  when  Booth  halted  by  the  curb  for  prayer 
He  saw  his  Master  thro'  the  flag-filled  air. 
Christ  came  gently  with  a  robe  and  crown 
For  Booth  the  soldier,  while  the  throng  knelt 

down. 

He  saw  King  Jesus.     They  were  face  to  face, 
And  he  knelt  a-weeping  in  that  holy  place. 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay 


THE   DRUNKARDS  IN  THE  STREET 


'HT^HE  Drunkards  in  the  street  are  calling 

one  another, 
Heeding  not  the  night-wind,  great  of  heart  and 


Publicans  and  wantons  — 

Calling,  laughing,  calling, 

While  the  Spirit  bloweth  Space  and  Time  away. 

Why  should  I  feel  the  sobbing,  the  secrecy, 

the  glory, 

This  comforter,  this  fitful  wind  divine? 
I  the  cautious  Pharisee,  the  scribe,  the  whited 

sepulchre  — 

I  have  no  right  to  God,  he  is  not  mine. 

****** 

Within  their  gutters,  drunkards  dream  of  Hell. 
I  say  my  prayers  by  my  white  bed  to-night, 
With  the  arms   of  God  about  me,  with  the 

angels  singing,  singing 
Until  the  grayness  of  my  soul  grows  white. 


General  William  Booth 


THE  CITY  THAT  WILL  NOT  REPENT 

/CLIMBING  the  heights  of  Berkeley 
^    Nightly  I  watch  the  West. 
There  lies  new  San  Francisco, 
Sea-maid  in  purple  dressed, 
Wearing  a  dancer's  girdle 
All  to  inflame  desire: 
Scorning  her  days  of  sackcloth, 
Scorning  her  cleansing  fire. 

See,  like  a  burning  city 
Sets  now  the  red  sun's  dome. 
See,  mystic  firebrands  sparkle 
There  on  each  store  and  home. 
See  how  the  golden  gateway 
Burns  with  the  day  to  be — 
Torch-bearing  fiends  of  portent 
Loom  o'er  the  earth  and  sea. 

Not  by  the  earthquake  daunted 
Nor  by  new  fears  made  tame, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay 


Painting  her  face  and  laughing 
Plays  she  a  new-found  game. 
Here  on  her  half-cool  cinders 
'Frisco  abides  in  mirth, 
Planning  the  wildest  splendor 
Ever  upon  the  earth. 

Here  on  this  crumbling  rock-ledge 
'Frisco  her  all  will  stake, 
Blowing  her  bubble-towers, 
Swearing  they  will  not  break, 
Rearing  her  Fair  transcendent, 
Singing  with  piercing  art, 
Calling  to  Ancient  Asia, 
Wooing  young  Europe's  heart. 
Here  where  her  God  has  scourged  her 
Wantoning,  singing  sweet: 
Waiting  her  mad  bad  lovers 
Here  by  the  judgment-seat! 

'Frisco,  God's  doughty  foeman, 
Scorns  and  blasphemes  him  strong. 
Tho'  he  again  should  smite  her 
She  would  not  slack  her  song. 
Nay,  she  would  shriek  and  rally — • 
'Frisco  would  ten  times  rise! 


General  William  Booth 


Not  till  her  last  tower  crumbles, 
Not  till  her  last  rose  dies, 
Not  till  the  coast  sinks  seaward, 
Not  till  the  cold  tides  beat 
Over  the  high  white  Shasta, 
'Frisco  will  cry  defeat. 

God  loves  this  rebel  city, 
Loves  foemen  brisk  and  game, 
Tho',  just  to  please  the  angels, 
He  may  send  down  his  flame. 
God  loves  the  golden  leopard 
Tho'  he  may  spoil  her  lair. 
God  smites,  yet  loves  the  lion. 
God  makes  the  panther  fair. 

Dance  then,  wild  guests  of  'Frisco, 
Yellow,  bronze,  white  and  red! 
Dance  by  the  golden  gateway — 
Dance,  tho'  he  smite  you  dead! 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay 


THE   TRAP 

CHE  was  taught  desire  in  the  street, 
^      Not  at  the  angels'  feet. 
By  the  good  no  word  was  said 
Of  the  worth  of  the  bridal  bed. 
The  secret  was  learned  from  the  vile, 
Not  from  her  mother's  smile. 
Home  spoke  not.    And  the  girl 
Was  caught  in  the  public  whirl. 
Do  you  say  "She  gave  consent: 
Life  drunk,  she  was  content 
With  beasts  that  her  fire  could  please?" 
But  she  did  not  choose  disease 
Of  mind  and  nerves  and  breath. 
She  was  trapped  to  a  slow,  foul  death. 
The  door  was  watched  so  well, 
That  the  steep  dark  stair  to  hell 
Was  the  only  escaping  way  .  .  . 
"She  gave  consent,"  you  say? 

Some  think  she  was  meek  and  good, 
Only  lost  in  the  wood 


io  General  William  Booth 

Of  youth,  and  deceived  in  man 
When  the  hunger  of  sex  began 
That  ties  the  husband  and  wife 
To  the  end  in  a  strong  fond  life. 
Her  captor,  by  chance  was  one 
Of  those  whose  passion  was  done, 
A  cold  fierce  worm  of  the  sea 
Enslaving  for  you  and  me. 
The  wages  the  poor  must  take 
Have  forced  them  to  serve  this  snake. 
Yea,  half-paid  girls  must  go 
For  bread  to  his  pit  below. 
What  hangman  shall  wait  his  host 
Of  butchers  from  coast  to  coast, 
New  York  to  the  Golden  Gate — > 
The  merger  of  death  and  fate, 
Lust-kings  with  a  careful  plan 
Clean-cut,  American? 

In  liberty's  name  we  cry 

For  these  women  about  to  die. 

O  mothers  who  failed  to  tell 
The  mazes  of  heaven  and  hell, 
Who  failed  to  advise,  implore 
Your  daughters  at  Love's  strange  door, 
What  will  you  do  this  day? 


Nicholas  V  achel  Lindsay  1 1 

Your  dear  ones  are  hidden  away, 
As  good  as  chained  to  the  bed, 
Hid  like  the  mad,  or  the  dead: — 
The  glories  of  endless  years 
Drowned  in  their  harlot-tears: 
The  children  they  hoped  to  bear, 
Grandchildren  strong  and  fair, 
The  life  for  ages  to  be, 
Cut  off  like  a  blasted  tree, 
Murdered  in  filth  in  a  day, 
Somehow,  by  the  merchant  gayl 

In  liberty's  name  we  cry 

For  these  women  about  to  die. 

What  shall  be  said  of  a  state 

Where  traps  for  the  white  brides  wait? 

Of  sellers  of  drink  who  play 

The  game  for  the  extra  pay? 

Of  statesmen  in  league  with  all 

Who  hope  for  the  girl-child's  fall? 

Of  banks  where  hell's  money  is  paid 

And  Pharisees  all  afraid 

Of  pandars  that  help  them  sin? 

When  will  our  wrath  begin? 

-  OKixlA  LIBRARY 


12  General  William  Booth 


WHERE  IS  DAVID,  THE  NEXT  KING 
OF  ISRAEL? 

TT^HERE  is  David?  .   .   .  O  God's 

people, 

Saul  has  passed,  the  good  and  great. 
Mourn  for  Saul  the  first-anointed — 
Head  and  shoulders  o'er  the  state. 

He  was  found  among  the  Prophets: 
Judge  and  monarch,  merged  in  one. 
But  the  wars  of  Saul  are  ended 
And  the  works  of  Saul  are  done. 

Where  is  David,  ruddy  shepherd, 
God's  boy-king  for  Israel? 
Mystic,  ardent,  dowered  with  beauty, 
Singing  where  still  waters  dwell? 

Prophet,  find  that  destined  minstrel 
Wandering  on  the  range  to-day, 
Driving  sheep  and  crooning  softly 
Psalms  that  cannot  pass  away. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  13 

"David  waits,"  the  prophet  answers, 
"In  a  black  notorious  den, 
In  a  cave  upon  the  border 
With  four  hundred  outlaw  men. 

"He  is  fair,  and  loved  of  women, 
Mighty-hearted,  born  to  sing: 
Thieving,  weeping,  erring,  praying, 
Radiant  royal  rebel-king. 

"He  will  come  with  harp  and  psaltry, 
Quell  his  troop  of  convict  swine, 
Quell  his  mad-dog  roaring  rascals, 
Witching  them  with  words  divine — 

"They  will  ram  the  walls  of  Zion! 
They  will  win  us  Salem  hill, 
All  for  David,  Shepherd  David — 
Singing  like  a  mountain  rill/" 


14  General  William  Booth 


ON  READING  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

[During  an  anti-saloon   campaign,   in  central 
Illinois.] 

"I"  N  the  midst  of  the  battle  I  turned, 

•••      (For    the    thunders    could    flourish 

without  me) 

And  hid  by  a  rose-hung  wall, 
Forgetting  the  murder  about  me; 
And  wrote,  from  my  wound,  on  the  stone, 
In  mirth,  half  prayer,  half  play: — 
"Send  me  a  picture  book, 
Send  me  a  song,  to-day." 

I  saw  him  there  by  the  wall 
When  I  scarce  had  written  the  line, 
In  the  enemy's  colors  dressed 
And  the  serpent-standard  of  wine 
Writhing  its  withered  length 
From  his  ghostly  hands  o'er  the  ground, 
And  there  by  his  shadowy  breast 
The  glorious  poem  I  found. 

This  was  his  world-old  cry: 
Thus  read  the  famous  prayer: 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay    .  15 

"Wine,  wine,  wine  and  flowers 

And  cup-bearers  always  fair!" 

'Twas  a  book  of  the  snares  of  earth 

Bordered  in  gold  and  blue, 

And  I  read  each  line  to  the  wind 

And  read  to  the  roses  too : 

And  they  nodded  their  womanly  heads 

And  told  to  the  wall  just  why 

For  wine  of  the  earth  men  bleed, 

Kingdoms  and  empires  die. 

I  envied  the  grape  stained  sage : 

(The  roses  were  praising  him.) 

The  ways  of  the  world  seemed  good 

And  the  glory  of  heaven  dim. 

I  envied  the  endless  kings 

Who  found  great  pearls  in  the  mire, 

Who  bought  with  the  nation's  life 

The  cup  of  delicious  fire. 

But  the  wine  of  God  came  down, 
And  I  drank  it  out  of  the  air. 
(Fair  is  the  serpent-cup, 
But  the  cup  of  God  more  fair.) 
The  wine  of  God  came  down 
That  makes  no  drinker  to  weep. 
And  I  went  back  to  battle  again 
Leaving  the  singer  asleep. 


1 6  General  William  Booth 


THE    BEGGAR'S    VALENTINE 

TT'ISS  me  and  comfort  my  heart 
•^      Maiden  honest  and  fine. 
I  am  the  pilgrim  boy 

Lame,  but  hunting  the  shrine; 

Fleeing  away  from  the  sweets, 
Seeking  the  dust  and  rain, 

Sworn  to  the  staff  and  road, 
Scorning  pleasure  and  pain; 

Nevertheless  my  mouth 

Would  rest  like  a  bird  an  hour 

And  find  in  your  curls  a  nest 
And  find  in  your  breast  a  bower: 

Nevertheless  my  eyes 

Would  lose  themselves  in  your  own, 
Rivers  that  seek  the  sea, 

Angels  before  the  throne: 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  17 

Kiss  me  and  comfort  my  heart, 

For  love  can  never  be  mine : 
Passion,  hunger  and  pain, 

These  are  the  only  wine 

Of  the  pilgrim  bound  to  the  road. 

He  would  rob  no  man  of  his  own. 
Your  heart  is  another's  I  know, 

Your  honor  is  his  alone. 

The  feasts  of  a  long  drawn  love, 

The  feasts  of  a  wedded  life, 
The  harvests  of  patient  years, 

And  hearthstone  and  children  and  wife: 

These  are  your  lords  I  know. 

These  can  never  be  mine — 
This  is  the  price  I  pay 

For  the  foolish  search  for  the  shrine: 

This  is  the  price  I  pay 

For  the  joy  of  my  midnight  prayers, 
Kneeling  beneath  the  moon 

With  hills  for  my  altar  stairs; 

This  is  the  price  I  pay 

For  the  throb  of  the  mystic  wings, 


1 8  General  William  Booth 

When  the  dove  of  God  comes  down 
And  beats  round  my  heart  and  sings; 

This  is  the  price  I  pay 

For  the  light  I  shall  some  day  see 
At  the  ends  of  the  infinite  earth 

When  truth  shall  come  to  me. 

And  what  if  my  body  die 

Before  I  meet  the  truth? 
The  road  is  dear,  more  dear 

Than  love  or  life  or  youth. 

The  road,  it  is  the  road, 

Mystical,  endless,  kind, 
Mother  of  visions  vast, 

Mother  of  soul  and  mind; 

Mother  of  all  of  me 

But  the  blood  that  cries  for  a  mate — 
That  cries  for  a  farewell  kiss 

From  the  child  of  God  at  the  gate. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  19 


HONOR  AMONG   SCAMPS 

TT7E  are  the  smirched.  Queen  Honor  is 
the  spotless. 

We  slept  thro'  wars  where  Honor  could  not 
sleep. 

We  were  faint-hearted.  Honor  was  full- 
valiant. 

We  kept  a  silence  Honor  could  not  keep. 

Yet  this  late  day  we  make  a  song  to  praise  her. 
We,  codeless,  will  yet  vindicate  her  code. 
She  who  was  mighty,  walks  with  us,  the  beg- 
gars. 
The  merchants  drive  her  out  upon  the  road. 

She  makes  a  throne  of  sod  beside  our  campfire. 
We  give  the  maiden-queen  our  rags  and  tears. 
A  battered,  rascal  guard  have  rallied  round 

her, 
To  keep  her  safe  until  the  better  years. 


2O  General  William  Booth 


THE  GAMBLERS 

T    IFE'S  a  jail  where  men  have  common  lot. 
••-'    Gaunt  the  one  who  has,  and  who  has  not. 
All  our  treasures  neither  less  nor  more, 
Bread  alone  comes  thro*  the  guarded  door. 
Cards  are  foolish  in  this  jail,  I  think, 
Yet  they  play  for  shoes,  for  drabs  and  drink. 
She,  my  lawless,  sharp-tongued  gypsy  maid 
Will  not  scorn  with  me  this  jail-bird  trade, 
Pets  some  fox-eyed  boy  who  turns  the  trick, 
Tho'  he  win  a  button  or  a  stick, 
Pencil,  garter,  ribbon,  corset-lace — 
His  the  glory,  mine  is  the  disgrace. 

Sweet,  I'd  rather  lose  than  win  despite 
Love  of  hearty  words  and  maids  polite. 
"Love's  a  gamble,"  say  you.     I  deny. 
Love's  a  gift.     I  love  you  till  I  die. 
Gamblers  fight  like  rats.     I  will  not  play. 
All  I  ever  had  I  gave  away. 
All  I  ever  coveted  was  peace 
Such  as  comes  if  we  have  jail  release. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  21 

Cards  are  puzzles,  tho'  the  prize  be  gold, 
Cards  help  not  the  bread  that  tastes  of  mold, 
Cards  dye  not  your  hair  to  black  more  deep, 
Cards  make  not  the  children  cease  to  weep. 

Scorned,  I  sit  with  half  shut  eyes  all  day — 
Watch  the  cataract  of  sunshine  play 
Down  the  wall,  and  dance  upon  the  floor. 
Sun,  come  down  and  break  the  dungeon  door ! 
Of  such  gold  dust  could  I  make  a  key, — 
Turn  the  bolt — how  soon  we  would  be  free! 
Over  borders  we  would  hurry  on 
Safe  by  sunrise  farms,  and  springs  of  dawn, 
Wash  our  wounds  and  jail  stains  there  at  last, 
Azure  rivers  flowing,  flowing  past. 
God  has  great  estates  just  past  the  line, 
Green  farms  for  all,  and  meat  and  corn  and 
wine. 


22  General  William  Booth 


ON    THE    ROAD    TO    NOWHERE 


the  road  to  nowhere 
What  wild  oats  did  you  sow 
When  you  left  your  father's  house 
With  your  cheeks  aglow? 
Eyes  so  strained  and  eager 
To  see  what  you  might  see? 
Were  you  thief  or  were  you  fool 
Or  most  nobly  free? 

Were  the  tramp-days  knightly, 
True  sowing  of  wild  seed? 
Did  you  dare  to  make  the  songs 
Vanquished  workmen  need? 
Did  you  waste  much  money 
To  deck  a  leper's  feast? 
Love  the  truth,  defy  the  crowd 
Scandalize  the  priest? 
On  the  road  to  nowhere 
What  wild  oats  did  you  sow? 
Stupids  find  the  nowhere-road 
Dusty,  grim  and  slow. 

Ere  their  sowing's  ended 
They  turn  them  on  their  track, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  23 

Look  at  the  caitiff  craven  wights 
Repentant,  hurrying  back! 
Grown  ashamed  of  nowhere, 
Of  rags  endured  for  years, 
Lust  for  velvet  in  their  hearts, 
Pierced  with  Mammon's  spears, 
All  but  a  few  fanatics 
Give  up  their  darling  goal, 
Seek  to  be  as  others  are, 
Stultify  the  soul. 
Reapings  now  confront  them, 
Glut  them,  or  destroy, 
Curious  seeds,  grain  or  weeds 
Sown  with  awful  joy. 
Hurried  is  their  harvest, 
They  make  soft  peace  with  men. 
Pilgrims  pass.     They  care  not, 
Will  not  tramp  again. 

O  nowhere,  golden  nowhere  I 
Sages  and  fools  go  on 
To  your  chaotic  ocean, 
To  your  tremendous  dawn. 
Far  in  your  fair  dream-haven, 
Is  nothing  or  is  all  ... 
They  press  on,  singing,  sowing 
Wild  deeds  without  recall! 


24  General  William  Booth 


UPON  RETURNING  TO  THE 
COUNTRY  ROAD 

YEN  the  shrewd  and  bitter, 

Gnarled  by  the  old  world's  greed, 
Cherished  the  stranger  softly 
Seeing  his  utter  need. 
Shelter  and  patient  hearing, 
These  were  their  gifts  to  him, 
To  the  minstrel,  grimly  begging 
As  the  sunset-fire  grew  dim. 
The  rich  said  "You  are  welcome." 
Yea,  even  the  rich  were  good. 
How  strange  that  in  their  feasting 
His  songs  were  understood! 
The  doors  of  the  poor  were  open, 
The  poor  who  had  wandered  too, 
Who  had  slept  with  ne'er  a  roof-tree 
Under  the  wind  and  dew. 
The  minds  of  the  poor  were  open, 
Their  dark  mistrust  was  dead. 
They  loved  his  wizard  stories, 
They  bought  his  rhymes  with  bread. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  25 

Those  were  his  days  of  glory, 
Of  faith  in  his   fellow-men. 
Therefore,  to-day  the  singer 
Turns  beggar  once  again. 


26  General  William  Booth 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE   CLOWN 

T   SAW  wild  domes  and  bowers 
•••  And  smoking  incense  towers 
And  mad  exotic  flowers 
In  Illinois. 

Where  ragged  ditches  ran 
Now  springs  of  Heaven  began 
Celestial  drink  for  man 
In  Illinois. 

There  stood  beside  the  town 
Beneath  its  incense-crown 
An  angel  and  a  clown 
In  Illinois. 

He  was  as  Clowns  are: 
She  was  snow  and  star 
With  eyes  that  looked  afar 
In  Illinois. 

I  asked,  "How  came  this  place 
Of  antique  Asian  grace 
Amid  our  callow  race 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  27 

In  Illinois?" 

Said  Clown  and  Angel  fair: 

"By  laughter  and  by  prayer, 

By  casting  off  all  care 

In  Illinois." 


28  General  William  Booth 


SPRINGFIELD    MAGICAL 

T  N  this,  the  City  of  my  Discontent, 

A    Sometimes  there  comes  a  whisper  from  the 

grass, 
"Romance,    Romance — is    here.      No    Hindu 

town 

Is  quite  so  strange.     No  Citadel  of  Brass 
By  Sinbad  found,  held  half  such  love  and  hate ; 
No  picture-palace  in  a  picture-book 
Such  webs  of  Friendship,  Beauty,  Greed  and 

Fate!" 

In  this,  the  City  of  my  Discontent, 
Down  from  the  sky,  up  from  the  smoking  deep 
Wild  legends  new  and  old  burn  round  my  bed 
While  trees  and  grass  and  men  are  wrapped 

in  sleep. 
Angels  come  down,  with  Christmas  in  their 

hearts, 

Gentle,  whimsical,  laughing,  heaven-sent; 
And,  for  a  day,  fair  Peace  have  given  me 
In  this,  the  City  of  my  Discontent! 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  29 


INCENSE 

/T^HINK  not  that  incense-smoke  has  had  its 

day. 

My  friends,  the  incense-time  has  but  begun. 
Creed  upon  creed,  cult  upon  cult  shall  bloom, 
Shrine  after  shrine  grow  gray  beneath  the  sun. 

And  mountain-boulders  in  our  aged  West 
Shall  guard  the  graves  of  hermits  truth-en- 
dowed : 

And  there  the  scholar  from  the  Chinese  hills 
Shall  do  deep  honor,  with  his  wise  head  bowed. 

And  on  our  old,  old  plains  some  muddy  stream, 
Dark  as  the  Ganges,  shall,  like  that  strange 

tide — 

(Whispering  mystery  to  half  the  earth)  — 
Gather  the  praying  millions  to  its  side, 

And  flow  past  halls  with  statues  in  white  stone 
To  saints  unborn  to-day,  whose  lives  of  grace 
Shall  make  one  shining,  universal  church 
Where  all  Faiths  kneel,  as  brothers,  in  one 
place. 


30  General  William  Booth 


THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  ROSE  AND 
THE    LOTOS 


wide  Pacific  waters 
And  the  Atlantic  meet. 
With  cries  of  joy  they  mingle, 
In  tides  of  love  they  greet. 
Above  the  drowned  ages 
A  wind  of  wooing  blows:  — 
The  red  rose  woos  the  lotos, 
The  lotos  woos  the  rose  .  .  . 

The  lotos  conquered  Egypt. 

The  rose  was  loved  in  Rome. 
Great  India  crowned  the  lotos: 
(Britain  the  rose's  home). 
Old  China  crowned  the  lotos, 
They  crowned  it  in  Japan. 
But  Christendom  adored  the  rose 
Ere  Christendom  began  .  .  . 

The  lotos  speaks  of  slumber: 
The  rose  is  as  a  dart. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  31 

The  lotos  is  Nirvana: 
The  rose  is  Mary's  heart. 
The  rose  is  deathless,  restless, 
The  splendor  of  our  pain: 

The  flush  and  fire  of  labor 
That  builds,  not  all  in  vain.  .  .  . 

The  genius  of  the  lotos 
Shall  heal  earth's  too-much  fret. 
The  rose,  in  blinding  glory, 
Shall  waken  Asia  yet. 
Hail  to  their  loves,  ye  peoples! 
Behold,  a  world-wind  blows, 
That  aids  the  ivory  lotos 
To  wed  the  red  red  rose! 


32  General  William  Booth 


KING  ARTHUR'S  MEN  HAVE  COME 
AGAIN 

[Written   while   a    field-worker   in   the   Anti- 
Saloon  League  of  Illinois.] 

ING  ARTHUR'S  men  have  come  again. 

They  challenge  everywhere 
The  foes  of  Christ's  Eternal  Church. 
Her  incense  crowns  the  air. 
The  heathen  knighthood  cower  and  curse 
To  hear  the  bugles  ring, 
But  spears  are  set,  the  charge  is  on, 
Wise  Arthur  shall  be  king! 

And  Cromwell's  men  have  come  again, 

I  meet  them  in  the  street. 

Stern  but  in  this — no  way  of  thorns 

Shall  snare  the  children's  feet. 

The  reveling  foemen  wreak  but  waste, 

A  sodden  poisonous  band. 

Fierce  Cromwell  builds  the  flower-bright  towns, 

And  a  more  sunlit  land! 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  33 

And  Lincoln's  men  have  come  again. 

Up  from  the  South  he  flayed, 

The  grandsons  of  his  foes  arise 

In  his  own  cause  arrayed. 

They  rise  for  freedom  and  clean  laws 

High  laws,  that  shall  endure. 

Our  God  establishes  his  arm 

And  makes  the  battle  sure! 


34  General  William  Booth 


FOREIGN   MISSIONS   IN   BATTLE 
ARRAY 

A  N  endless  line  of  splendor, 
•*  *•    These  troops  with  heaven  for  home, 
With  creeds  they  go  from  Scotland, 
With  incense  go  from  Rome. 
These,  in  the  name  of  Jesus, 
Against  the  dark  gods  stand, 
They  gird  the  earth  with  valor, 
They  heed  their  King's  command. 

Onward  the  line  advances, 
Shaking  the  hills  with  power, 
Slaying  the  hidden  demons, 
The  lions  that  devour. 
No  bloodshed  in  the  wrestling, — 
But  souls  new-born  arise — 
The  nations  growing  kinder, 
The  child-hearts  growing  wise. 

What  is  the  final  ending? 
The  issue,  can  we  know? 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  35 

Will  Christ  outlive  Mohammed? 
Will  Kali's  altar  go? 
This  is  our  faith  tremendous, — » 
Our  wild  hope,  who  shall  scorn, — 
That  in  the  name  of  Jesus 
The  world  shall  be  reborn! 


36  General  William  Booth 


STAR  OF  MY  HEART 

OTAR  of  my  heart,  I  follow  from  afar. 
^     Sweet  Love  on  high,  lead  on  where  shep- 
herds are, 

Where  Time  is  not,  and  only  dreamers  are. 
Star  from  of  old,  the  Magi-Kings   are  dead 
And  a  foolish  Saxon  seeks  the  manger-bed. 
O  lead  me  to  Jehovah's  child 
Across  this  dreamland  lone  and  wild, 
Then  will  I  speak  this  prayer  unsaid, 
And  kiss  his  little  haloed  head — 
"My  star  and  I,  we  love  thee,  little  child." 

Except  the  Christ  be  born  again  to-night 
In  dreams  of  all  men,  saints  and  sons  of  shame, 
The  world  will  never  see  his  kingdom  bright. 
Stars  of  all  hearts,  lead  onward  thro'  the  night 
Past    death-black    deserts,    doubts    without    a 

name, 

Past  hills  of  pain  and  mountains  of  new  sin 
To  that  far  sky  where  mystic  births  begin, 
Where  dreaming  ears  the  angel-song  shall  win. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  37 

Our  Christmas  shall  be  rare  at  dawning  there, 

And  each  shall  find  his  brother  fair, 

Like  a  little  child  within : 

All  hearts  of  the  earth  shall  find  new  birth 

And  wake,  no  more  to  sin. 


38  General  William  Booth 


LOOK  YOU,   I'LL  GO   PRAY 

T    OOK  you,  I'll  go  pray, 

My  shame  is  crying, 
My  soul  is  gray  and  faint, 
My  faith  is  dying. 
Look  you,  I'll  go  pray — 
"Sweet  Mary,  make  me  clean, 
Thou  rainstorm  of  the  soul, 
Thou  wine  from  worlds  unseen." 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  39 


AT  MASS 

doubt  to-morrow  I  will  hide 
My  face  from  you,  my  King. 
Let  me  rejoice  this  Sunday  noon, 
And  kneel  while  gray  priests  sing. 

It  is  not  wisdom  to  forget. 

But  since  it  is  my  fate 

Fill  thou  my  soul  with  hidden  wine 

To  make  this  white  hour  great. 

My  God,  my  God,  this  marvelous  hour 
I  am  your  son  I  know. 
Once  in  a  thousand  days  your  voice 
Has  laid  temptation  low. 


40  General  William  Booth 


HEART  OF  GOD 

r\    GREAT  heart  of  God, 

^^       Once  vague  and  lost  to  me, 

Why  do  I  throb  with  your  throb  to-night, 

In  this  land,  eternity? 

O  little  heart  of  God, 

Sweet  intruding  stranger, 

You  are  laughing  in  my  human  breast, 

A  Christ-child  in  a  manger. 

Heart,  dear  heart  of  God, 

Beside  you  now  I  kneel, 

Strong  heart  of  faith.     O  heart  not  mine, 

Where  God  has  set  His  seal. 

Wild  thundering  heart  of  God 

Out  of  my  doubt  I  come, 

And  my  foolish  feet  with  prophets'  feet, 

March  with  the  prophets'  drum. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  41 


THE    EMPTY    BOATS 

\\7  HY  do  I  see  these  empty  boats,  sailing 

on  airy  seas? 
One  haunted  me  the  whole  night  long,  swaying 

with  every  breeze, 
Returning  always  near  the  eaves,  or  by  the 

skylight  glass : 
There  it  will  wait  me  many  weeks,  and  then, 

at  last,  will  pass. 
Each  soul  is  haunted  by  a  ship  in  which  that 

soul  might  ride 
And  climb  the  glorious  mysteries  of  Heaven's 

silent  tide 
In  voyages  that  change  the  very  metes  and 

bounds  of  Fate — 
O   empty  boats,   we   all  refuse,   that  by  our 

windows  wait! 


42  General  William  Booth 


WITH  A  BOUQUET  OF  TWELVE 
ROSES 

T    SAW  Lord  Buddha  towering  by  my  gate 
Saying:  "Once  more, good  youth,  I  stand 

and  wait." 

Saying:  "I  bring  you  my  fair  Law  of  Peace 
And  from  your  withering  passion  full  release; 
Release   from  that   white  hand  that  stabbed 

you  so. 

The  road  is  calling.    With  the  wind  you  go, 
Forgetting  her  imperious  disdain — 
Quenching  all  memory  in  the  sun  and  rain." 

"Excellent  Lord,  I  come.    But  first,"  I  said, 
"Grant  that  I  bring  her  these  twelve  roses  red. 
Yea,    twelve   flower   kisses    for   her   rose-leaf 

mouth, 

And  then  indeed  I  go  in  bitter  drouth 
To  that  far  valley  where  your  river  flows 
In  Peace,  that  once  I  found  in  every  rose." 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  43 


ST.  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 

WOULD  I  might  wake  St.  Francis  in  you 
all, 

Brother  of  birds  and  trees,  God's  Troubadour, 
Blinded  with  weeping  for  the  sad  and  poor; 
Our  wealth  undone,  all  strict  Franciscan  men, 
Come,  let  us  chant  the  canticle  again 
Of  mother  earth  and  the  enduring  sun. 
God  make  each  soul  the  lonely  leper's  slave; 
God  make  us  saints,  and  brave. 


44  General  William  Booth 


BUDDHA 

"11I7"OULD  that  by  Hindu  magic  we  became 
Dark  monks   of  jeweled   India   long 

ago, 

Sitting  at  Prince  Siddartha's  feet  to  know 
The  foolishness  of  gold  and  love  and  station, 
The  gospel  of  the  Great  Renunciation, 
The  ragged  cloak,  the  staff,  the  rain  and  sun, 
The  beggar's  life,  with  far  Nirvana  gleaming: 
Lord,  make  us  Buddhas,  dreaming. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  45 


A  PRAYER  TO  ALL  THE  DEAD  AMONG 
MINE  OWN  PEOPLE 

ARE  these  your  presences,  my  clan  from 
Heaven? 

Are  these  your  hands  upon  my  wounded  soul? 
Mine  own,  mine  own,  blood  of  my  blood  be 

with  me, 
Fly  by  my  path  till  you  have  made  me  whole  I 


46  General  William  Booth 


TO  REFORMERS  IN  DESPAIR 

J'TMS  not  too  late  to  build  our  young  land 

right, 

Cleaner  than  Holland,  courtlier  than  Japan, 
Devout  like  early  Rome,  with  hearths  like  hers, 
Hearths  that  will  recreate  the  breed  called  man. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  47 


WHY  I  VOTED  THE  SOCIALIST 
TICKET 

T  AM  unjust,  but  I  can  strive  for  justice. 

My  life's  unkind,  but  I  can  vote  for  kind- 
ness. 

I,  the  unloving,  say  life  should  be  lovely. 

I,  that  am  blind,  cry  out  against  my  blindness. 

Man  is  a  curious  brute — he  pets  his  fancies — 
Fighting  mankind,  to  win  sweet  luxury. 
So  he  will  be,  thoj  law  be  clear  as  crystal, 
Tho'  all  men  plan  to  live  in  harmony. 

Come,  let  us  vote  against  our  human  nature, 
Crying  to  God  in  all  the  polling  places 
To  heal  our  everlasting  sinfulness 
And  make  us  sages  with  transfigured  faces. 


48  General  William  Booth 


The  following  verses  were  written  on  the 
evening  of  March  the  first,  nineteen  hundred 
and  eleven,  and  printed  next  morning  in  the 
Illinois  State  Register. 

They  celebrate  the  arrival  of  the  news  that 
the  United  States  Senate  had  declared  the  elec- 
tion of  William  Lorimer  good  and  valid,  by  a 
vote  of  forty -six  to  forty. 


TO  THE  UNITED  STATES  SENATE 

[Revelation  16:  Verses  16-19] 

A  ND  must  the  Senator  from  Illinois 
-**•      Be  this  squat  thing,  with  blinking,  half- 
closed  eyes? 

This  brazen  gutter  idol,  reared  to  power 
Upon  a  leering  pyramid  of  lies? 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  49 

And  must  the  Senator  from  Illinois 

Be  the  world's  proverb  of  successful  shame, 

Dazzling  all  State  house  flies  that  steal  and 

steal, 
Who,  when  the  sad  State  spares  them,  count  it 

fame? 


If  once  or  twice  within  his  new  won  hall 
His  vote  had  counted  for  the  broken  men; 
If  in  his  early  days  he  wrought  some  good — 
We  might  a  great  soul's  sins  forgive  him  then. 


But  must  the  Senator  from  Illinois 
Be  vindicated  by  fat  kings  of  gold? 
And  must  he  be  belauded  by  the  smirched, 
The  sleek,  uncanny  chiefs  in  lies  grown  old? 


Be   warned,    O    wanton   ones,    who    shielded 

him — 

Black  wrath  awaits.    You  all  shall  eat  the  dust. 
You  dare  not  say:    "To-morrow  will  bring 

peace; 
Let  us  make  merry,  and  go  forth  in  lust." 


50  General  William  Booth 

What  will  you  trading  frogs  do  on  a  day 
When  Armageddon  thunders  thro'  the  land; 
When  each  sad  patriot  rises,  mad  with  shame, 
His  ballot  or  his  musket  in  his  hand? 


In  the  distracted  states  from  which  you  came 
The   day  is  big  with  war   hopes  fierce   and 

strange ; 

Our  iron  Chicagos  and  our  grimy  mines 
Rumble  with  hate  and  love  and  solemn  change. 


Too  many  weary  men  shed  honest  tears, 
Ground  by  machines  that  give  the  Senate  ease. 
Too  many  little  babes  with  bleeding  hands 
Have  heaped  the  fruits  of  empire  on  your 
knees. 


And  swine  within  the  Senate  in  this  day, 
When  all  the  smothering  by-streets  weep  and 

wail; 
When  wisdom  breaks  the  hearts  of  her  best 

sons; 
When  kingly  men,  voting  for  truth,  may  fail : — 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  51 

These  are  a  portent  and  a  call  to  arms. 

Our  protest  turns  into  a  battle  cry: 

"Our  shame  must  end,  our  States  be  free  and 

clean; 
And  in  this  war  we  choose  to  live  and  die." 

[So  far  as  the  writer  knows  this  is  the  first 
use  of  the  popular  term  Armageddon  in  pres- 
ent day  politics. ] 


52  General  William  Booth 


THE  KNIGHT  IN  DISGUISE 
[Concerning  O.  Henry  (Sidney  Porter)] 

£V  f-fE  could  not  forget  that  he  was  a  Sid- 
ney." 

Is  this  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  this  loud  clown, 
The  darling  of  the  glad  and  gaping  town? 

This  is  that  dubious  hero  of  the  press 
Whose  slangy  tongue  and  insolent  address 
Were  spiced  to  rouse  on  Sunday  afternoon 
The    man    with    yellow    journals    round    him 

strewn. 
We  laughed  and  dozed,  then  roused  and  read 

again, 

And  vowed  O.  Henry  funniest  of  men. 
He  always  worked  a  triple-hinged  surprise 
To  end  the  scene  and  make  one  rub  his  eyes. 

He  comes  with  vaudeville,  with  stare  and  leer. 
He  comes  with  megaphone  and  specious  cheer. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  53 

His  troupe,  too  fat  or  short  or  long  or  lean, 
Step  from  the  pages  of  the  magazine 
With  slapstick  or  sombrero  or  with  cane : 
The  rube,  the  cowboy  or  the  masher  vain. 
They  over-act  each  part.    But  at  the  height 
Of  banter  and  of  canter  and  delight 
The  masks  fall  off  for  one  queer  instant  there 
And  show  real  faces:    faces  full  of  care 
And  desperate   longing:    love   that's  hot  or 

cold; 

And  subtle  thoughts,  and  countenances  bold. 
The  masks   go  back.     'Tis   one  more   joke. 

Laugh  on! 
The  goodly  grown-up  company  is  gone. 


No  doubt  had  he  occasion  to  address 

The  brilliant  court  of  purple-clad  Queen  Bess, 

He  would  have  wrought  for  them  the  best  he 

knew 

And  led  more  loftily  his  actor-crew. 
How  coolly  he  misquoted.    'Twas  his  art — 
Slave-scholar,  who  misquoted — from  the  heart. 
So  when  we  slapped  his  back  with  friendly  roar 
JEsop  awaited  him  without  the  door, — 
JEsop  the  Greek,  who  made  dull  masters  laugh 
With  little  tales  of  fox  and  dog  and  calf. 


54  General  William  Booth 

And  be  it  said,  mid  these  his  pranks  so  odd 
With  something  nigh  to  chivalry  he  trod 
And  oft  the  drear  and  driven  would  defend — 
The  little  shopgirls'  knight  unto  the  end. 
Yea,  he  had  passed,  ere  we  could  understand 
The  blade  of  Sidney  glimmered  in  his  hand. 
Yea,  ere  we  knew,  Sir  Philip's  sword  was  drawn 
With  valiant  cut  and  thrust,  and  he  was  gone. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  55 

THE  WIZARD  IN  THE  STREET 
[Concerning  Edgar  Allan  Poe] 

WHO  now  will  praise  the  Wizard  in  the 
street 
With   loyal    songs,    with   humors   grave    and 

sweet — 

This  Jingle-man,  of  strolling  players  born, 
Whom  holy  folk  have  hurried  by  in  scorn, 
This  threadbare  jester,  neither  wise  nor  good, 
With  melancholy  bells  upon  his  hood? 

The  hurrying  great  ones   scorn  his  Raven's 

croak, 

And  well  may  mock  his  mystifying  cloak 
Inscribed  with  runes  from  tongues  he  has  not 

read 

To  make  the  ignoramus  turn  his  head. 
The  artificial  glitter  of  his  eyes 
Has  captured  half-grown  boys.     They  think 

him  wise. 

Some  shallow  player-folk  esteem  him  deep, 
Soothed  by  his  steady  wand's  mesmeric  sweep. 


56  General  William  Booth 

The  little  lacquered  boxes  in  his  hands 
Somehow  suggest  old  times   and  reverenced 

lands. 
From  them  doll-monsters  come,  we  know  not 

how: 

Puppets,  with  Cain's  black  rubric  on  the  brow. 
Some  passing  jugglers,  smiling,  now  concede 
That  his  best  cabinet-work  is  made,  indeed 
By  bleeding  his  right  arm,  day  after  day, 
Triumphantly  to  seal  and  to  inlay. 
They  praise  his  little  act  of  shedding  tears; 
A  trick,  well  learned,  with  patience,  thro'  the 

years. 

I  love  him  in  this  blatant,  well-fed  place. 
Of  all  the  faces,  his  the  only  face 
Beautiful,  tho'  painted  for  the  stage, 
Lit  up  with  song,  then  torn  with  cold,  small 

rage, 
Shames  that  are  living,  loves  and  hopes  long 

dead, 
Consuming  pride,  and  hunger,  real,  for  bread. 

Here  by  the  curb,  ye  Prophets  thunder  deep : 
"What    Nations    sow,    they   must    expect    to 
reap," 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  57 

Or  haste  to   clothe  the  race  with  truth  and 

power, 

With  hymns  and  shouts  increasing  every  hour. 
Useful  are  you.    There  stands  the  useless  one 
Who  builds  the  Haunted  Palace  in  the  sun. 
Good  tailors,  can  you  dress  a  doll  for  me 
With  silks  that  whisper  of  the  sounding  sea? 
One  moment,  citizens, — the  weary  tramp 
Unveileth  Psyche  with  the  agate  lamp. 
Which  one  of  you  can  spread  a  spotted  cloak 
And  raise  an  unaccounted  incense  smoke 
Until  within  the  twilight  of  the  day 
Stands  dark  Ligeia  in  her  disarray, 
Witchcraft  and  desperate  passion  in  her  breath 
And  battling  will,  that  conquers  even  death? 

And   now   the   evening  goes.     No   man   has 

thrown 

The  weary  dog  his  well-earned  crust  or  bone. 
We  grin  and  hie  us  home  and  go  to  sleep, 
Or  feast  like  kings  till  midnight,  drinking  deep. 
He  drank  alone,  for  sorrow,  and  then  slept, 
And  few  there  were  that  watched  him,  few  that 

wept. 

He  found  the  gutter,  lost  to  love  and  man. 
Too  slowly  came  the  good  Samaritan. 


58  General  William  Booth 


THE  EAGLE  THAT  IS  FORGOTTEN 

[John  P.  Altgeld.     Born  Dec.  30,  1847;  died 
March  12,  1902] 

CLEEP  softly  *  *  *  eagle  forgotten  *  *  * 
^  under  the  stone. 

Time  has  its  way  with  you  there,  and  the  clay 
has  its  own. 

"We  have  buried  him  now,"  thought  your  foes, 

and  in  secret  rejoiced. 
They  made  a  brave  show  of  their  mourning, 

their  hatred  unvoiced. 
They   had    snarled   at   you,    barked   at   you, 

foamed  at  you  day  after  day, 
Now   you   were   ended.      They   praised   you, 

*  *  *and  laid  you  away. 

The  others  that  mourned  you  in  silence  and 

terror  and  truth, 
The  widow  bereft  of  her  crust,  and  the  boy 

without  youth, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  59 

The  mocked  and  the  scorned  and  the  wounded, 

the  lame  and  the  poor 
That  should  have  remembered  forever,  *  *  * 

remember  no  more. 

Where  are  those  lovers  of  yours,  on  what 
name  do  they  call 

The  lost,  that  in  armies  wept  over  your  fu- 
neral pall? 

They  call  on  the  names  of  a  hundred  high- 
valiant  ones, 

A  hundred  white  eagles  have  risen  the  sons  of 
your  sons, 

The  zeal  in  their  wings  is  a  zeal  that  your 
dreaming  began 

The  valor  that  wore  out  your  soul  in  the  ser- 
vice of  man. 

Sleep  softly,  *  *  *  eagle  forgotten,  *  *  * 

under  the  stone, 
Time  has  its  way  with  you  there  and  the  clay 

has  its  own. 
Sleep  on,  O  brave  hearted,  O  wise  man,  that 

kindled  the  flame — 
To  live  in  mankind  is  far  more  than  to  live  in 

a  name, 
To  live  in  mankind,  far,  far  more  *  *  *  than 

to  live  in  a  name. 


60  General  William  Booth 


SHAKESPEARE 

WOULD  that  in  body  and  spirit  Shake- 
speare came 

Visible  emperor  of  the  deeds  of  Time, 
With  Justice  still  the  genius  of  his  rhyme, 
Giving  each  man  his  due,  each  passion  grace, 
Impartial  as  the  rain  from  Heaven's  face 
Or  sunshine  from  the  heaven-enthroned  sun. 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  come  to  us  again. 
Teach  us  to  write,  and  writing,  to  be  men. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  61 


MICHELANGELO 

1TTOULD  I  might  wake  in  you  the  whirl- 
wind soul 

Of  Michelangelo,  who  hewed  the  stone 
And  Night  and  Day  revealed,  whose  arm  alone 
Could  draw  the  face  of  God,  the  titan  high 
Whose  genius  smote  like  lightning  from  the 

sky — 
And  shall  he  mold  like  dead  leaves  in  the 

grave  ? 

Nay  he  is  in  us !    Let  us  dare  and  dare. 
God  help  us  to  be  brave. 


62  General  William  Booth 


TITIAN 

TITOULD  that  such  hills  and  cities  round  us 

sang, 

Such  vistas  of  the  actual  earth  and  man 
As  kindled  Titian  when  his  life  began; 
Would  that  this  latter  Greek  could  put  his  gold, 
Wisdom  and  splendor  in  our  brushes  bold 
Till  Greece  and  Venice,  children  of  the  sun, 
Become  our  every-day,  and  we  aspire 
To  colors  fairer  far,  and  glories  higher. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  63 


LINCOLN 

WOULD  I  might  rouse  the  Lincoln  in  you 
all, 

That  which  is  gendered  in  the  wilderness 
From  lonely  prairies  and  God's  tenderness. 
Imperial  soul,  star  of  a  weedy  stream, 
Born  where  the  ghosts  of  buffaloes  still  dream, 
Whose  spirit  hoof-beats  storm  above  his  grave, 
Above  that  breast  of  earth  and  prairie-fire — 
Fire  that  freed  the  slave. 


64  General  William  Booth 


THE  CORNFIELDS 

'  I  VHE  cornfields  rise  above  mankind, 
•**       Lifting  white  torches  to  the  blue, 
Each  season  not  ashamed  to  be 
Magnificently  decked  for  you. 

What  right  have  you  to  call  them  yours, 
And  in  brute  lust  of  riches  burn 
Without  some  radiant  penance  wrought, 
Some  beautiful,  devout  return? 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  65 


SWEET  BRIARS  OF  THE  STAIRWAYS 

'117'E  are  happy  all  the  time 
Even  when  we  fight: 
Sweet  briars  of  the  stairways, 
Gay  fairies  of  the  grime; 
We,  who  are  playing  to-night. 

"Our  feet  are  in  the  gutters, 
Our  eyes  are  sore  with  dust, 
But  still  our  eyes  are  bright. 
The  wide  street  roars  and  mutters — 
We  know  it  works  because  it  must — 
We,  who  are  playing  to-night! 

"Dirt  is  everlasting. — We  never,  never  fear  it. 
Toil  is  never  ceasing. — We  will  play  until  we 

near  it. 
Tears  are  never  ending. — When  once  real  tears 

have  come; 

"When  we  see  our  people  as  they  are — 
Our  fathers — broken,  dumb — 


66  General  William  Booth 

Our  mothers — broken,  dumb — 
The  weariest  of  women  and  of  men; 
Ah — then  our  eyes  will  lose  their  light — 
Then  we  will  never  play  again — 

We,  who  are  playing  to-night" 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  67 


FANTASIES  AND   WHIMS 

THE  FAIRY  BRIDAL  HYMN 

[This  is  the  hymn  to  Eleanor,  daughter  of  Mab 

and  a  golden  drone,  sung  by  the  Locust 

choir  when  the  fairy  child  marries 

her  God,  the  yellow  rose] 

'  I  v  HIS  is  a  song  to  the  white-armed  one 

Cold  in  the  breast  as  the  frost-wrapped 
Spring, 

Whose  feet  are  slow  on  the  hills  of  life, 
Whose  round  mouth  rules  by  whispering. 

This  is  a  song  to  the  white-armed  one 
Whose  breast  shall  burn  as  a  Summer  field, 
Whose  wings  shall  rise  to  the  doors  of  gold, 
Whose  poppy  lips  to  the  God  shall  yield. 

This  is  a  song  to  the  white-armed  one 
When  the  closing  rose  shall  bind  her  fast, 
And  a  song  of  the  song  their  blood  shall  sing, 
When  the  Rose-God  drinks  her  soul  at  last. 


68  General  William  Booth 


THE  POTATO'S  DANCE 

«T"\OWN  cellar,"  said  the  cricket, 

*~*      "I  saw  a  ball  last  night 
In  honor  of  a  lady 
Whose  wings  were  pearly-white. 
The  breath  of  bitter  weather 
Had  smashed  the  cellar  pane: 
We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves 
And  then  of  snow  and  rain. 
But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 
And  loved  to  hear  it  blow 
In  honor  of  the  lady 
Who  makes  potatoes  grow— 
Our  guest,  the  Irish  lady, 
The  tiny  Irish  lady, 
The  fairy  Irish  lady 
That  makes  ootatoes  grow. 

"Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  band, 
Potatoes  were  the  dancers 
Kicking  up  the  sand : 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  69 

Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 

Their  arms  were  just  the  same, 

They  jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled 

In  honor  of  the  dame: 

The  noble  Irish  lady 

Who  makes  potatoes  dance, 

The  witty  Irish  lady, 

The  saucy  Irish  lady, 

The  laughing  Irish  lady 

Who  makes  potatoes  prance. 

"There  was  just  one  sweet  potato. 

He  was  golden-brown  and  slim: 

The  lady  loved  his  figure. 

She  danced  all  night  with  him. 

Alas,  he  wasn't  Irish. 

So  when  she  flew  away, 

They  threw  him  in  the  coal-bin 

And  there  he  is  to-day, 

Where  they  cannot  hear  his  sigh 

His  weeping  for  the  lady, 

The  beauteous  Irish  lady, 

The  radiant  Irish  lady 

Who  gives  potatoes  eyes." 


70  General  William  Booth 


HOW  A  LITTLE  GIRL  SANG 

A  H,  she  was  music  in  herself, 
^  A  symphony  of  joyousness. 
She  sang,  she  sang  from  finger  tips, 
From  every  tremble  of  her  dress. 
I  saw  sweet  haunting  harmony, 
An  ecstasy,  an  ecstasy, 
In  that  strange  curling  of  her  lips, 
That  happy  curling  of  her  lips. 
And  quivering  with  melody 
Those  eyes  I  saw,  that  tossing  head. 

And  so  I  saw  what  music  was, 
Tho'  still  accursed  with  ears  of  lead. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  71 


'T^ 


GHOSTS  IN  LOVE 

ELL  me,  where  do  ghosts  in  love 
Find  their  bridal  veils?" 


"If  you  and  I  were  ghosts  in  love 

We'd  climb  the  cliffs  of  Mystery, 

Above  the  sea  of  Wails. 

I'd  trim  your  gray  and  streaming  hair 

With  veils  of  Fantasy 

From  the  tree  of  Memory. 

Tis  there  the  ghosts  that  fall  in  love 

Find  their  bridal  veils." 


72  General  William  Booth 


THE  QUEEN  OF  BUBBLES 
[Written  for  a  picture] 


Youth  speaks:  — 

"Why  do  you  seek  the  sun 
In  your  bubble-crown  ascending? 
Your  chariot  will  melt  to  mist. 
Your  crown  will  have  an  ending." 

The  Goddess  replies:  — 
"Nay,  sun  is  but  a  bubble, 
Earth  is  a  whiff  of  foam  — 
To  my  caves  on  the  coast  of  Thule 
Each  night  I  call  them  home. 
Thence  Faiths  blow  forth  to  angels 
And  loves  blow  forth  to  men  — 
They  break  and  turn  to  nothing 
And  I  make  them  whole  again. 
On  the  crested  waves  of  chaos 
I  ride  them  back  reborn  : 
New  stars  I  bring  at  evening 
For  those  that  burst  at  morn: 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  73 

My  soul  is  the  wind  of  Thule 
And  evening  is  the  sign — « 
The  sun  is  but  a  bubble, 
A  fragile  child  of  mine." 


74  General  William  Booth 


THE  TREE  OF  LAUGHING  BELLS,  OR 
THE  WINGS  OF  THE  MORNING 

[A  Poem  for  Aviators] 
How  the  Wings  Were  Made 

"C*  ROM  many  morning-glories 
That  in  an  hour  will  fade, 
From  many  pansy  buds 
Gathered  in  the  shade, 
From  lily  of  the  valley 
And  dandelion  buds, 
From  fiery  poppy-buds 

Are  the  Wings  of  the  Morning  made. 

The  Indian  Girl  Who  Made  Them 

These,  the  Wings  of  the  Morning, 
An  Indian  Maiden  wove, 
Intertwining  subtilely 
Wands  from  a  willow  grove 
Beside  the  Sangamon — 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  75 

Rude  stream  of  Dreamland  Town. 

She  bound  them  to  my  shoulders 

With  fingers  golden-brown. 

The  wings  were  part  of  me; 

The  willow-wands  were  hot. 

Pulses  from  my  heart 

Healed  each  bruise  and  spot 

Of  the  morning-glory  buds, 

Beginning  to  unfold 

Beneath  her  burning  song  of  suns  untold. 


The  Indian  Girl  Tells  the  Hero  Where  to  Go 
to  Get  the  Laughing  Bell 

"To  the  farthest  star  of  all, 
Go,  make  a  moment's  raid. 
To  the  west — escape  the  earth 
Before  your  pennons  fade ! 
West!  west!  o'ertake  the  night 
That  flees  the  morning  sun. 
There's  a  path  between  the 
A  black  and  silent  one. 
O  tremble  when  you  near 
The  smallest  star  that  sings : 
Only  the  farthest  star 
Is  cool  for  willow  wings. 


7 6  General  William  Booth 

4 'There's  a  sky  within  the  west — 

There's  a  sky  beyond  the  skies 

Where  only  one  star  shines — 

The  Star  of  Laughing  Bells — 

In  Chaos-land  it  lies  ; 

Cold  as  morning-dew, 

A  gray  and  tiny  boat 

Moored  on  Chaos-shore, 

Where  nothing  else  can  float 

But  the  Wings  of  the  Morning  strong 

And  the  lilt  of  laughing  song 

From  many  a  ruddy  throat: 

"For  the  Tree  of  Laughing  Bells 

Grew  from  a  bleeding  seed 

Planted  mid  enchantment 

Played  on  a  harp  and  reed: 

Darkness  was  the  harp— 

Chaos-wind  the  reed; 

The  fruit  of  the  tree  is  a  bell,  blood-red—^ 

The  seed  was  the  heart  of  a  fairy,  dead. 

Part  of  the  bells  of  the  Laughing  Tree 

Fell  to-day  at  a  blast  from  the  reed. 

Bring  a  fallen  bell  to  me. 

Go  1"  the  maiden  said. 

"For  the  bell  will  quench  our  memory, 

Our  hope, 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  77 

Our  borrowed  sorrow; 

We  will  have  no  thirst  for  yesterday, 

No  thought  for  to-morrow." 

The  Journey  Starts  Swiftly 

A  thousand  times  ten  thousand  times 
More  swift  than  the  sun's  swift  light 
Were  the  Morning  Wings  in  their  flight 
On—    On- 
West  of  the  Universe, 
Thro'  the  West 
To  Chaos-night. 

He  Nears  the  Goal 

How  the  red  bells  rang 

As  I  neared  the  Chaos-shore! 

As  I  flew  across  to  the  end  of  the  West 

The  young  bells  rang  and  rang 

Above  the  Chaos  roar, 

And  the  Wings  of  the  Morning 

Beat  in  tune 

And  bore  me  like  a  bird  along — 

And  the  nearing  star  turned  to  a  moon — • 

Gray  moon,  with  a  brow  of  red — 

Gray  moon  with  a  golden  song. 


78  General  William  Booth 

Like  a  diver  after  pearls 

I  plunged  to  that  stifling  floor. 

It  was  wide  as  a  giant's  wheat-field 

An  icy,  wind-washed  shore. 

O  laughing,  proud,  but  trembling  star! 

O  wind  that  wounded  sore ! 


He  Climbs  the  Hill  Where  the   Tree  Grows 

On— 

Thro'  the  gleaming  gray 

I  ran  to  the  storm  and  clang — 

To   the   red,    red   hill   where   the   great  tree 

swayed — 

And  scattered  bells  like  autumn  leaves. 
How  the  red  bells  rang ! 
My  breath  within  my  breast 
Was  held  like  a  diver's  breath — 
The  leaves  were  tangled  locks  of  gray — 
The  boughs  of  the  tree  were  white  and  gray, 
Shaped  like  scythes  of  Death. 
The   boughs   of   the   tree   would   sweep    and 

sway — 

Sway  like  scythes  of  Death. 
But  it  was  beautiful ! 
I  knew  that  all  was  well. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  79 

A  thousand  bells  from  a  thousand  boughs 

Each  moment  bloomed  and  fell. 

On  the  hill  of  the  wind-swept  tree 

There  were  no  bells  asleep; 

They  sang  beneath  my  trailing  wings 

Like  rivers  sweet  and  steep. 

Deep  rock-clefts  before  mv  feet 

Mighty  chimes  did  keep 

And  little  choirs  did  keep. 

He  Receives  the  Bells 

Honeyed,  small  and  fair, 

Like  flowers,  in  flowery  lands — 

Like  little  maidens^  hands — 

Two  bells  fell  in  my  hair, 

Two  bells  caressed  my  hair. 

I  pressed  them  to  my  purple  lips 

In  the  strangling  Chaos-air. 

He  Starts  on  the  Return  Journey 

On  desperate  wings  and  strong, 
Two  bells  within  my  breast, 
I  breathed  again,  I  breathed  again — » 
West  of  the  Universe — 


8o  General  William  Booth 

West  of  the  skies  of  the  West. 

Into  the  black  toward  home, 

And  never  a  star  in  sight, 

By  Faith  that  is  blind  I  took  my  way 

With  my  two  bosomed  blossoms  gay 

Till    a    speck    in    the    East   was    the    Milky 

way: 

Till  starlit  was  the  night. 
And  the  bells  had  quenched  all  memory — 
All  hope- 
All  borrowed  sorrow: 
I  had  no  thirst  for  yesterday, 
No  thought  for  to-morrow. 
Like  hearts  within  my  breast 
The  bells  would  throb  to  me 
And  drown  the  siren  stars 
That  sang  enticingly; 
My  heart  became  a  bell — 
Three  bells  were  in  my  breast, 
Three  hearts  to  comfort  me. 
We  reached  the  daytime  happily — 
We  reached  the  earth  with  glee. 
In  an  hour,  in  an  hour  it  was  done ! 
The  wings  in  their  morning  flight 
Were  a  thousand  times  ten  thousand 

times 
More  swift  than  beams  of  light. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  81 


He  Gives  What  He  Won  to  the  Indian  Girl 

I  panted  in  the  grassy  wood; 

I  kissed  the  Indian  Maid 

As  she  took  my  wings  from  me: 

With  all  the  grace  I  could 

I  gave  two  throbbing  bells  to  her 

From  the  foot  of  the  Laughing  Tree. 

And  one  she  pressed  to  her  golden  breast 

And  one,  gave  back  to  me. 

From  Lilies  of  the  valley— 

See  them  fade. 

From  poppy-blooms  all  frayed, 

From  dandelions  gray  with  care, 

From  pansy-faces,  worn  and  torn, 

From  morning-glories — » 

See  them  fade — 

From  all  things  fragile,  faint  and  fair 

Are  the  Wings  of  the  Morning  made ! 


82  General  William  Booth 


SWEETHEARTS  OF  THE  YEAR 

Sweetheart  Spring 


Sweetheart,  Spring,  came  softly, 
Her  gliding  hands  were  fire, 
Her  lilac  breath  upon  our  cheeks 
Consumed  us  with  desire. 

By  her  our  God  began  to  build, 

Began  to  sow  and  till. 

He  laid  foundations  in  our  loves 

For  every  good  and  ill. 

We  asked  Him  not  for  blessing, 

We  asked  Him  not  for  pain  — 

Still,  to  the  just  and  unjust 

He  sent  His  fire  and  rain. 


Sweetheart  Summer 

We  prayed  not,  yet  she  came  to  us, 
The  silken,  shining  one, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  83 

On  Jacob's  noble  ladder 

Descended  from  the  sun. 

She  reached  our  town  of  Every  Day, 

Our  dry  and  dusty  sod — 

We  prayed  not,  yet  she  brought  to  us 

The  misty  wine  of  God. 

Sweetheart  Autumn 

The  woods  were  black  and  crimson, 
The  frost-bit  flowers  were  dead, 
But  Sweetheart  Indian  Summer  came 
With  love-winds  round  her  head. 
While  fruits  God-given  and  splendid 
Belonged  to  her  domain: 
Baskets  of  corn  in  perfect  ear 
And  grapes  with  purple  stain, 
The  treacherous  winds  persuaded  her 
Spring  Love  was  in  the  wood 
Altho'  the  end  of  love  was  hers — 
Fruition,  Motherhood. 

Sweetheart  Winter 

We  had  done  naught  of  service 
To  win  our  Maker's  praise. 


84  General  William  Booth 

Yet  Sweetheart  Winter  came  to  us 
To  gild  our  waning  days. 
Down  Jacob's  winding  ladder 
She  came  from  Sunshine  Town, 
Bearing  the  sparkling  mornings 
And  clouds  of  silver-brown; 
Bearing  the  seeds  of  Springtime. 
Upon  her  snowy  seas 
Bearing  the  fairy  star-flowers 
For  baby  Christmas  trees. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  85 


THE   SORCERESS! 

T   ASKED  her,  "Is  Aladdin's  lamp 

"*•       Hidden  anywhere?" 
"Look  into  your  heart,"  she  said, 
"Aladdin's  lamp  is  there." 

She  took  my  heart  with  glowing  hands. 
It  burned  to  dust  and  air 
And  smoke  and  rolling  thistledown 
Blowing  everywhere. 

"Follow  the  thistledown,"  she  said, 
"Till  doomsday,  if  you  dare, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 
Aladdin's  lamp  is  there." 


86  General  William  Booth 


CAUGHT  IN  A  NET 

T  TPON  her  breast  her  hands  and  hair 
^r  Were  tangled  all  together. 

The  moon  of  June  forbade  me  not — 

The  golden  night  time  weather 
In  balmy  sighs  commanded  me 

To  kiss  them  like  a  feather. 

Her  looming  hair,  her  burning  hands, 
Were  tangled  black  and  white. 

My  face  I  buried  there.     I  pray — 
So  far  from  her  to-night — 

For  grace,  to  dream  I  kiss  her  soul 
Amid  the  black  and  white. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  87 


EDEN  IN  WINTER 

[Supposed  to  be  chanted  to  some  rude  instru- 
ment at  a  modern  fireplace] 

HANT  we  the  story  now 
Tho'  in  a  house  we  sleep; 
Tho'  by  a  hearth  of  coals 
Vigil  to-night  we  keep. 
Chant  we  the  story  now, 
Of  the  vague  love  we  knew 
When  I  from  out  the  sea 
Rose  to  the  feet  of  you. 

Bird  from  the  cliffs  you  came, 
Flew  thro'  the  snow  to  me, 
Facing  the  icy  blast 
There  by  the  icy  sea. 
How  did  I  reach  your  feet? 
Why  should  I — at  the  end 
Hold  out  half-frozen  hands 
Dumbly  to  you  my  friend? 
Ne'er  had  I  woman  seen, 


88  General  William  Booth 

Ne'er  had  I  seen  a  flame. 
There  you  piled  fagots  on, 
Heat  rose — the  blast  to  tame. 
There  by  the  cave-door  dark, 
Comforting  me  you  cried — 
Wailed  o'er  my  wounded  knee, 
Wept  for  my  rock-torn  side. 

Up  from  the  South  I  trailed — 
Left  regions  fierce  and  fair! 
Left  all  the  jungle-trees, 
Left  the  red  tiger's  lair. 
Dream  led,  I  scarce  knew  why, 
Into  your  North  I  trod — 
Ne'er  had  I  known  the  snow, 
Or  the  frost-blasted  sod. 

O  how  the  flakes  came  down  I 
O  how  the  fire  burned  high ! 
Strange  thing  to  see  he  was, 
Thro'  his  dry  twigs  would  fly, 
Creep  there  awhile  and  sleep — 
Then  wake  and  bark  for  fight — * 
Biting  if  I  too  near 
Came  to  his  eye  so  bright. 
Then  with  a  will  you  fed 
Wood  to  his  hungry  tongue. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  89 

Then  he  did  leap  and  sing — 
Dancing  the  clouds  among, 
Turning  the  night  to  noon, 
Stinging  my  eyes  with  light, 
Making  the  snow  retreat, 
Making  the  cave-house  bright. 

There  were  dry  fagots  piled, 
Nuts  and  dry  leaves  and  roots, 
Stores  there  of  furs  and  hides, 
Sweet-barks  and  grains  and  fruits. 
There  wrapped  in  fur  we  lay, 
Half-burned,  half-frozen  still — 
Ne'er  will  my  soul  forget 
All  the  night's  bitter  chill. 
We  had  not  learned  to  speak, 
I  was  to  you  a  strange 
Wolfling  or  wounded  fawn, 
Lost  from  his  forest-range. 

Thirsting  for  bloody  meat, 
Out  at  the  dawn  we  went. 
Weighed  with  our  prey  at  eve, 
Home-came  we  all  forespent. 
Comrades  and  hunters  tried 
Ere  we  were  maid  and  man — 


90  General  William  Booth 

Not  till  the  spring  awoke 
Laughter  and  speech  began. 

Whining  like  forest  dogs, 
'  Rustling  like  budding  trees, 
Bubbling  like  thawing  springs, 
Humming  like  little  bees, 
Crooning  like  Maytime  tides, 
Chattering  parrot  words, 
Crying  the  panther's  cry, 
Chirping  like  mating  birds — 
Thus,  thus,  we  learned  to  speak, 
Who  mid  the  snows  were  dumb, 
Nor  did  we  learn  to  kiss 
Until  the  Spring  had  come. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  91 


GENESIS 

T   WAS  but  a  half-grown  boy, 

You  were  a  girl-child  slight. 
Ah,  how  weary  you  were ! 
You  had  led  in  the  bullock-fight  .  . 
We  slew  the  bullock  at  length 
With  knives  and  maces  of  stone. 
And  so  your  feet  were  torn, 
Your  lean  arms  bruised  to  the  bone. 

Perhaps  'twas  the  slain  beast's  blood 
We  drank,  or  a  root  we  ate, 
Or  our  reveling  evening  bath 
In  the  fall  by  the  garden  gate, 
But  you  turned  to  a  witching  thing, 
Side-glancing,  and  frightened  me; 
You  purred  like  a  panther's  cub, 
You  sighed  like  a  shell  from  the  sea. 

We  knelt.    I  caressed  your  hair 
By  the  light  of  the  leaping  fire : 
Your  fierce  eyes  blinked  with  smoke, 


92  General  William  Booth 

Pine-fumes,  that  enhanced  desire. 
I  helped  to  unbraid  your  hair 
In  wonder  and  fear  profound: 
You  were  humming  your  hunting  tune 
As  it  swept  to  the  grassy  ground. 

Our  comrades,  the  shaggy  bear, 
The  tiger  with  velvet  feet, 
The  lion,  crept  to  the  light 
Whining  for  bullock  meat. 
We  fed  them  and  stroked  their  necks  .  . 
They  took  their  way  to  the  fen 
Where  they  hunted  or  hid  all  night; 
No  enemies,  they,  of  men. 

Evil  had  entered  not 

The  cobra,  since  defiled. 

He  watched,  when  the  beasts  had  gone 

Our  kissing  and  singing  wild. 

Beautiful  friend  he  was, 

Sage,  not  a  tempter  grim. 

Many  a  year  should  pass 

Ere  Satan  should  enter  him. 

He  danced  while  the  evening  dove 
And  the  nightingale  kept  in  tune. 
I  sang  of  the  angel  sun: 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  93 

You  sang  of  the  angel-moon: 

We  sang  of  the  angel-chief 

Who  blew  thro1  the  trees  strange  breath, 

Who  helped  in  the  hunt  all  day 

And  granted  the  bullock's  death. 

0  Eve  with  the  fire-lit  breast 
And  child-face  red  and  white! 

1  heaped  the  great  logs  high! 
That  was  our  bridal  night. 


94  General  William  Booth 


QUEEN  MAB  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

/~\NCE  I  loved  a  fairy, 

^^     Queen  Mab  it  was.  Her  voice 


Was  like  a  little  Fountain 
That  bids  the  birds  rejoice. 
Her  face  was  wise  and  solemn, 
Her  hair  was  brown  and  fine. 
Her  dress  was  pansy  velvet, 
A  butterfly  design. 

* 

To  see  her  hover  round  me 
Or  walk  the  hills  of  air, 
Awakened  love's  deep  pulses 
And  boyhood's  first  despair; 
A  passion  like  a  sword-blade 
That  pierced  me  thro'  and  thro' : 
Her  fingers  healed  the  sorrow 
Her  whisper  would  renew. 
We  sighed  and  reigned  and  feasted 
Within  a  hollow  tree, 
We  vowed  our  love  was  boundless, 
Eternal  as  the  sea. 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  95 

She  banished  from  her  kingdom 

The  mortal  boy  I  grew — 

So  tall  and  crude  and  noisy, 

I  killed  grasshoppers  too. 

I  threw  big  rocks  at  pigeons, 

I  plucked  and  tore  apart 

The  weeping,  wailing  daisies, 

And  broke  my  lady's  heart 

At  length  I  grew  to  manhood, 

I  scarcely  could  believe 

I  ever  loved  the  lady, 

Or  caused  her  court  to  grieve, 

Until  a  dream  came  to  me, 

One  bleak  first  night  of  Spring, 

Ere  tides  of  apple  blossoms 

Rolled  in  o'er  everything, 

While  rain  and  sleet  and  snowbanks 

Were  still  a-vexing  men, 

Ere  robin  and  his  comrades 

Were  nesting  once  again. 

I  saw  Mab's  Book  of  Judgment — 
Its  clasps  were  iron  and  stone, 
Its  leaves  were  mammoth  ivory, 
Its  boards  were  mammoth  bone,— 
Hid  in  her  seaside  mountains, 
Forgotten  or  unkept, 


g6  General  William  Booth 

Beneath  its  mighty  covers 
Her  wrath  against  me  slept. 
And  deeply  I  repented 
Of  brash  and  boyish  crime, 
Of  murder  of  things  lovely 
Now  and  in  olden  time. 
I  cursed  my  vain  ambition, 
My  would-be  worldly  days, 
And  craved  the  paths  of  wonder, 
Of  dewy  dawns  and  fays. 
I  cried,  "Our  love  was  boundless, 
Eternal  as  the  sea, 

0  Queen,  reverse  the  sentence, 
Come  back  and  master  me!" 

The  book  was  by  the  cliff-side 
Upon  its  edge  upright. 

1  laid  me  by  it  softly, 

And  wept  throughout  the  night. 

And  there  at  dawn  I  saw  it, 

No  book  now,  but  a  door, 

Upon  its  panels  written, 

"Judgment  is  no  more." 

The  bolt  flew  back  with  thunder, 

I  saw  within  that  place 

A  mermaid  wrapped  in  seaweed 

With  Mab's  immortal  face, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  97 

Yet  grown  now  to  a  woman, 
A  woman  to  the  knee. 
She  cried,  she  clasped  me  fondly, 
We  soon  were  in  the  sea. 


Ah,  she  was  wise  and  subtle, 
And  gay  and  strong  and  sleek, 
We  chained  the  wicked  sword-fish, 
We  played  at  hide  and  seek. 
We  floated  on  the  water, 
We  heard  the  dawn-wind  sing, 
I  made  from  ocean-wonders, 
Her  bridal  wreath  and  ring. 
All  mortal  girls  were  shadows, 
All  earth-life  but  a  mist, 
When  deep  beneath  the  maelstrom, 
The  mermaid's  heart  I  kissed. 


I  woke  beside  the  church-door 
Of  our  small  inland  town, 
Bowing  to  a  maiden 
In  a  pansy-velvet  gown, 
Who  had  not  heard  of  fairies, 
Yet  seemed  of  love  to  dream. 
We  planned  an  earthly  cottage 
Beside  an  earthly  stream. 


98  General  William  Booth 

Our  wedding  long  is  over, 
With  toil  the  years  fill  up, 
Yet  in  the  evening  silence, 
We  drink  a  deep-sea  cup. 
Nothing  the  fay  remembers, 
Yet  when  she  turns  to  me, 
We  meet  beneath  the  whirlpool, 
We  swim  the  golden  sea. 


Nicholas  V  achel  Lindsay  99 


THE  DANDELION 

DANDELION,  rich  and  haughty, 

King  of  village  flowers! 
Each  day  is  coronation  time, 
You  have  no  humble  hours. 
I  like  to  see  you  bring  a  troop 
To  beat  the  blue-grass  spears, 
To  scorn  the  lawn-mower  that  would  be 
Like  fate's  triumphant  shears. 
Your  yellow  heads  are  cut  away, 
It  seems  your  reign  is  o'er. 
By  noon  you  raise  a  sea  of  stars 
More  golden  than  before. 


ioo  General  William  Booth 


THE   LIGHT   O'    THE    MOON 

[How  different  people   and  different  animals 

look  upon  the  moon:    showing  that 

each  creature  finds  in  it  his  own 

mood  and   disposition] 

The  Old  Horse  in  the  City 

/T-S  HE  moon's  a  peck  of  corn.     It  lies 
-•>       Heaped  up  for  me  to  eat. 
I  wish  that  I  might  climb  the  path 
And  taste  that  supper  sweet. 

Men  feed  me  straw  and  scanty  grain 
And  beat  me  till  Fm  sore. 
Some  day  I'll  break  the  halter-rope 
And  smash  the  stable-door, 

Run  down  the  street  and  mount  the  hill 

Just  as  the  corn  appears. 

I've  seen  it  rise  at  certain  times 

For  years  and  years  and  years. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  IOI 


What  the  Hyena  Said 

The  moon  is  but  a  golden  skull, 

She  mounts  the  heavens  now, 

And  Moon- Worms,  mighty  Moon-Worms 

Are  wreathed  around  her  brow. 

The  Moon- Worms  are  a  doughty  race : 
They  eat  her  gray  and  golden  face. 
Her  eye-sockets  dead,  and  molding  head: 
These  caverns  are  their  dwelling-place. 

The  Moon-Worms,  serpents  of  the  skies, 
From  the  great  hollows  of  her  eyes 
Behold  all  souls,  and  they  are  wise: 
With  tiny,  keen  and  icy  eyes, 
Behold  how  each  man  sins  and  dies. 

When  Earth  in  gold-corruption  lies 
Long  dead,  the  moon-worm  butterflies 
On  cyclone  wings  will  reach  this  place — 
Yea,  rear  their  brood  on  earth's  dead  face. 

- 

What  the  Snow  Man  Said 

The  Moon's  a  snowball.    See  the  drifts 
Of  white  that  cross  the  sphere. 


IO2  General  William  Booth 

The  Moon's  a  snowball,  melted  down 
A  dozen  times  a  year. 

Yet  rolled  again  in  hot  July 
When  all  my  days  are  done 
And  cool  to  greet  the  weary  eye 
After  the  scorching  sun. 

The  moon's  a  piece  of  winter  fair 
Renewed  the  year  around, 
Behold  it,  deathless  and  unstained, 
Above  the  grimy  ground! 

It  rolls  on  high  so  brave  and  white 
Where  the  clear  air-rivers  flow, 
Proclaiming  Christmas  all  the  time 
And  the  glory  of  the  snow ! 

What  the  Scare-crow  Said 

The  dim-winged  spirits  of  the  night 
Do  fear  and  serve  me  well. 
They  creep  from  out  the  hedges  of 
The  garden  where  I  dwell. 

I  wave  my  arms  across  the  walk. 
The  troops  obey  the  sign, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  103 

And  bring  me  shimmering  shadow-robes 
And  cups  of  cowslip-wine. 

Then  dig  a  treasure  called  the  moon, 
A  very  precious  thing, 
And  keep  it  in  the  air  for  me 
Because  I  am  a  King. 

What  Grandpa  Mouse  Said 

The  moon's  a  holy  owl-queen. 
She  keeps  them  in  a  jar 
Under  her  arm  till  evening, 
Then  sallies  forth  to  war. 

She  pours  the  owls  upon  us. 
They  hoot  with  horrid  noise 
And  eat  the  naughty  mousie-girls 
And  wicked  mousie-boys. 

So  climb  the  moonvine  every  night 

And  to  the  owl-queen  pray: 

Leave  good  green  cheese  by  moonlit  trees 

For  her  to  take  away. 

And  never  squeak,  my  children, 
Nor  gnaw  the  smoke-house  door: 


IO4  General  William  Booth 

The  owl-queen  then  will  love  us 
And  send  her  birds  no  more. 


The  Beggar  Speaks 
"What  Mister  Moon  Said  to  Me." 

Come,  eat  the  bread  of  idleness, 
Come,  sit  beside  the  spring: 
Some  of  the  flowers  will  keep  awake, 
Some  of  the  birds  will  sing. 

Come,  eat  the  bread  no  man  has  sought 
For  half  a  hundred  years : 
Men  hurry  so  they  have  no  griefs, 
Nor  even  idle  tears : 

They  hurry  so  they  have  no  loves : 

They  cannot  curse  nor  laugh — 

Their  hearts  die  in  their  youth  with  neither 

Grave  nor  epitaph. 

My  bread  would  make  them  careless, 
And  never  quite  on  time — 
Their  eyelids  would  be  heavy, 
Their  fancies  full  of  rhyme: 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  105 

Each  soul  a  mystic  rose-tree, 
Or  a  curious  incense  tree: 


Come,  eat  the  bread  of  idleness, 
Said  Mister  Moon  to  me. 


What  the  Forester  Said 

The  moon  is  but  a  candle-glow 
That  flickers  thro'  the  gloom : 
The  starry  space,  a  castle  hall : 
And  Earth,  the  children's  room, 
Where  all  night  long  the  old  trees  stand 
To  watch  the  streams  asleep : 
Grandmothers  guarding  trundle-beds : 
Good  shepherds  guarding  sheep. 


106  General  William  Booth 


A  NET  TO  SNARE  THE  MOONLIGHT 

[What  the  Man  of  Faith  said] 


dew,  the  rain  and  moonlight 
All  prove  our  Father's  mind. 
The  dew,  the  rain  and  moonlight 
Descend  to  bless  mankind. 

Come,  let  us  see  that  all  men 

Have  land  to  catch  the  rain, 

Have  grass  to  snare  the  spheres  of  dew, 

And  fields  spread  for  the  grain. 

Yea,  we  would  give  to  each  poor  man 
Ripe  wheat  and  poppies  red,  — 
A  peaceful  place  at  evening 
With  the  stars  just  overhead: 

A  net  to  snare  the  moonlight, 
A  sod  spread  to  the  sun, 
A  place  of  toil  by  daytime, 
Of  dreams  when  toil  is  done. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  107 


BEYOND  THE  MOON 

[Written  to  the  Most  Beautiful  Woman  in 
the  World] 


TV/T  Y  Sweetheart  is  the  TRUTH  BEYOND  THE 

-*•*-*•     MOON, 

And  never  have  I  been  in  love  with  Woman, 

Always  aspiring  to  be  set  in  tune 

With  one  who  is  invisible,  inhuman. 

O  laughing  girl,  cold  TRUTH  has  stepped  be- 
tween, 

Spoiling  the  fevers  of  your  virgin  face: 
Making  your  shining  eyes  but  lead  and  clay, 
Mocking  your  brilliant  brain  and  lady's  grace. 


TRUTH  haunted  me  the  day  I  wooed  and  lost, 
The  day  I  wooed  and  won,  or  wooed  in  play: 
Tho'  you  were  Juliet  or  Rosalind, 
Thus  shall  it  be,  forever  and  a  day. 


io8  General  William  Booth 

I  doubt  my  vows,  tho'  sworn  on  my  own  blood, 
Tho'  I  draw  toward  you  weeping,  soul  to  soul, 
I  have  a  lonely  goal  beyond  the  moon; 
Ay,  beyond  Heaven  and  Hell,  I  have  a  goal! 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  109 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GARDEN-TOAD 

T"\OWN,  down  beneath  the  daisy  beds, 

•*^     O  hear  the  cries  of  pain! 

And  moaning  on  the  cinder-path 

They're  blind  amid  the  rain. 

Can  murmurs  of  the  worms  arise 

To  higher  hearts  than  mine? 

I  wonder  if  that  gardener  hears 

Who  made  the  mold  all  fine 

And  packed  each  gentle  seedling  down 

So  carefully  in  line? 

I  watched  the  red  rose  reaching  up 

To  ask  him  if  he  heard 

Those  cries  that  stung  the  evening  earth 

Till  all  the  rose-roots  stirred. 

She  asked  him  if  he  felt  the  hate 

That  burned  beneath  them  there. 

She  asked  him  if  he  heard  the  curse 

Of  worms  in  black  despair. 

He  kissed  the  rose.     What  did  it  mean? 

What  of  the  rose's  prayer? 


no  General  William  Booth 

Down,  down  where  rain  has  never  come 
They  fight  in  burning  graves, 
Bleeding  and  drinking  blood 
Within  those  venom-caves. 
Blaspheming  still  the  gardener's  name, 
They  live  and  hate  and  go. 
I  wonder  if  the  gardener  heard 
The  rose  that  told  him  so  ? 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  1 1 1 


A  GOSPEL  OF  BEAUTY 

/  recited  these  three  poems  more  than  any 
others  in  my  late  mendicant  preaching  tour 
through  the  West.  Taken  as  a  triad,  they 
hold  in  solution  my  theory  of  American  civili- 
zation. 


THE  PROUD  FARMER 

[In  memory  of  E.  S.  Frazee,  Rush  County, 
Indiana] 

T  NTO  the  acres  of  the  newborn  state 

^     He  poured  his  strength,  and  plowed  his 

ancient  name, 

And,  when  the  traders  followed  him,  he  stood 
Towering  above  their  furtive  souls  and  tame. 

That  brow  without  a  stain,  that  fearless  eye 
Oft  left  the  passing  stranger  wondering 


112  General  William  Booth 

To  find  such  knighthood  in  the  sprawling  land, 
To  see  a  democrat  well-nigh  a  king. 

He  lived  with  liberal  hand,  with  guests  from 

far, 

With  talk  and  joke  and  fellowship  to  spare, — 
Watching  the  wide  world's  life  from  sun  to 

sun, 

Lining  his  walls  with  books  from  everywhere. 
He  read  by  night,  he  built  his  world  by  day. 
The  farm  and  house  of  God  to  him  were  one. 
For  forty  years  he  preached  and  plowed  and 

wrought — 
A  statesman  in  the  fields,  who  bent  to  none. 

His  plowmen-neighbors  were  as  lords  to  him. 
His  was  an  ironside,  democratic  pride. 
He  served  a  rigid  Christ,  but  served  him  well — 
And,  for  a  lifetime,  saved  the  countryside. 

Here  lie  the  dead,  who  gave  the  church  their 

best 

Under  his  fiery  preaching  of  the  word. 
They    sleep    with    him    beneath    the    ragged 

grass  .  .  . 
The  village  withers,  by  his  voice  unstirred. 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  113 

And  tho'  his  tribe  be  scattered  to  the  wind 

From  the  Atlantic  to  the  China  sea, 

Yet  do   they  think  of  that  bright  lamp  he 

burned 
Of  family  worth  and  proud  integrity. 

And  many  a  sturdy  grandchild  hears  his  name 
In  reverence  spoken,  till  he  feels  akin 
To  all  the  lion-eyed  who  built  the  world — 
And  lion-dreams  begin  to  burn  within. 


H4  General  William  Booth 


THE  ILLINOIS  VILLAGE 

OYOU  who  lose  the  art  of  hope, 
Whose  temples  seem  to  shrine  a  lie, 
Whose  sidewalks  are  but  stones  of  fear, 
Who  weep  that  Liberty  must  die, 
Turn  to  the  little  prairie  towns, 
Your  higher  hope  shall  yet  begin. 
On  every  side  awaits  you  there 
Some  gate  where  glory  enters  in. 

Yet  when  I  see  the  flocks  of  girls, 
Watching  the  Sunday  train  go  thro' 
(As  tho1  the  whole  wide  world  went  by) 
With  eyes  that  long  to  travel  too, 
I  sigh,  despite  my  soul  made  glad 
By  cloudy  dresses  and  brown  hair, 
Sigh  for  the  sweet  life  wrenched  and  torn 
By  thundering  commerce,  fierce  and  bare. 
Nymphs  of  the  wheat  these  girls  should  be 
Kings  of  the  grove,  their  lovers  strong. 
Why  are  they  not  inspired,  aflame? 
This  beauty  calls  for  valiant  song — 


Nicholas  Fachel  Lindsay  115 

For  men  to  carve  these  fairy-forms. 
And  faces  in  a  fountain-frieze; 
Dancers  that  own  immortal  hours; 
Painters  that  work  upon  their  knees; 
Maids,  lovers,  friends,  so  deep  in  life, 
So  deep  in  love  and  poet's  deeds, 
The  railroad  is  a  thing  disowned, 
The  city  but  a  field  of  weeds. 

Who  can  pass  a  village  church 
By  night  in  these  clean  prairie  lands 
Without  a  touch  of  Spirit-power? 
So  white  and  fixed  and  cool  it  stands — 
A  thing  from  some  strange  fairy-town, 
A  pious  amaranthine  flower, 
Unsullied  by  the  winds,  as  pure 
As  jade  or  marble,  wrought  this  hour: — 
Rural  in  form,  foursquare  and  plain, 
And  yet  our  sister,  the  new  moon, 
Makes  it  a  praying  wizard's  dream. 
The  trees  that  watch  at  dusty  noon 
Breaking  its  sharpest  lines,  veil  not 
The  whiteness  it  reflects  from  God, 
Flashing  like  Spring  on  many  an  eye, 
Making  clean  flesh,  that  once  was  clod. 

Who  can  pass  a  district  school 
Without  the  hope  that  there  may  wait 


ii 6  General  William  Booth 

Some  baby-heart  the  books  shall  flame 
With  zeal  to  make  his  playmates  great, 
To  make  the  whole  wide  village  gleam 
A  strangely  carved  celestial  gem, 
Eternal  in  its  beauty-light, 
The  Artist's  town  of  Bethlehem ! 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  117 


ON  THE  BUILDING  OF  SPRINGFIELD 

T    ET  not  our  town  be  large,  remembering 
'L'     That  little  Athens  was  the  Muses1  home, 
That  Oxford  rules  the  heart  of  London  still, 
That  Florence  gave  the  Renaissance  to  Rome. 

Record  it  for  the  grandson  of  your  son — 
A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day : 
Our  little  town  cannot  complete  her  soul 
Till  countless  generations  pass  away. 

Now  let  each  child  be  joined  as  to  a  church 
To  her  perpetual  hopes,  each  man  ordained: 
Let  every  street  be  made  a  reverent  aisle 
Where  Music  grows  and  Beauty  is  unchained. 

Let  Science  and  Machinery  and  Trade 
Be  slaves  of  her,  and  make  her  all  in  all, 
Building  against  our  blatant,  restless  time 
An  unseen,  skilful,  medieval  wall. 

Let  every  citizen  be  rich  toward  God. 
Let  Christ  the  beggar,  teach  divinity. 


n8  General  William  Booth 

Let  no  man  rule  who  holds  his  money  dear. 
Let  this,  our  city,  be  our  luxury. 

We  should  build  parks  that  students  from  afar 
Would   choose  to   starve  in,   rather  than  go 

home, 

Fair  little  squares,  with  Phidian  ornament, 
Food  for  the  spirit,  milk  and  honeycomb. 

Songs  shall  be  sung  by  us  in  that  good  day, 
Songs  we  have  written,  blood  within  the  rhyme 
Beating,  as  when  Old  England  still  was  glad, — 
The  purple,  rich  Elizabethan  time. 


Say,  is  my  prophecy  too  fair  and  far? 
I  only  know,  unless  her  faith  be  high, 
The  soul  of  this,  our  Nineveh,  is  doomed, 
Our  little  Babylon  will  surely  die. 

Some  city  on  the  breast  of  Illinois 

No  wiser  and  no  better  at  the  start 

By  faith  shall  rise  redeemed,  by  faith  shall  rise 

Bearing  the  western  glory  in  her  heart. 

The  genius  of  the  Maple,  Elm  and  Oak, 
The  secret  hidden  in  each  grain  of  corn, 


Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  119 

The  glory  that  the  prairie  angels  sing 

At  night  when  sons  of  Life  and  Love  are  born, 

Born  but  to  struggle,  squalid  and  alone, 
Broken  and  wandering  in  their  early  years. 
When  will  they  make  our  dusty  streets  their 

goal, 
Within  our  attics  hide  their  sacred  tears? 

When  will  they  start  our  vulgar  blood  athrill 
With  living  language,  words  that  set  us  free? 
When  will  they  make  a  path  of  beauty  clear 
Between  our  riches  and  our  liberty? 

We  must  have  many  Lincoln-hearted  men. 
A  city  is  not  builded  in  a  day. 
And  they  must  do  their  work,  and  come  and  go 
While  countless  generations  pass  away. 


^4n  announcement  by  Mitchell  Kenner ley 
THE    MODERN    DRAMA    SERIES 

EDITED    BY    EDWIN    BJORKMAN 

Each  volume  uniform  cloth  binding,  prices  various,  from  $1.00  to  $1.50  net 

CONSIDERING  the  western  world  as  a  whole,  the  dramatic  production 
of  the  last  fifty  years  must  be  held  to  equal,  and  perhaps  to  surpass,  that 
of  any  preceding  period.  And  this  production  displays  an  essential  unity  of 
spirit  and  manner  that  heralds  the  final  disappearance  of  national  barriers  in 
literature.  To  make  the  American  public  free  of  this  common  storehouse  of 
thought  and  beauty  is  the  object  underlying  the  Modern  Drama  Series, 
which  aims  at  appealing  with  equal  force  to  scholar  and  layman.  It  will 
gradually  bring  translations  from  every  language  that  has  produced  a  con- 
temporary drama  worthy  of  notice.  It  will  also  include  English  and  Amer- 
ican plays  of  exceptional  significance.  The  editor  of  the  series  has  within  a 
few  years  made  a  reputation  for  himself  as  a  f arsighted  student  of  modern  liter- 
ature and  as  a  successful  translator.  Each  volume  will  have  an  introduction 
of  an  informative  rather  than  a  critical  nature  and  a  chronological  list  of  plays 
by  the  same  author. 

The  following  ten  volumes   of  this   series   are   now  ready:   ask  your 
bookseller  for  a  detailed  prospectus. 

I.  (Danish)  KAREN  BORXEMAX:  LYXGGAARD  &  CO.    Two  plays  by 
HJALMAR  BERGSTROM.     Translated  by  Edwin  Bjorkman.     $1.50. 

II.  (French)  THE    VULTURES:     THE    WOMAN    OF    PARIS:     THE 
MERRY-GO-ROUND.     Three  plays  by  HENRY   BECQUE.      Translated  by 
Freeman  Tilden.    $1.50. 

III.  (Norwegian)    PEER   GYXT.     A   dramatic   poem   by   HENRIK    IBSEN. 
Translated  in  the  original  metre  by  R.  Ellis  Roberts.     With  an  introduction  and 
notes.     $1.25. 

IV.  (Italian)  THE  STRONGER:   LIKE  FALLING  LEAVES:  SACRED 
GROUND.     Three  plays  by  GIUSEPPE  GIACOSA.     Translated  by  Edith  and 
Allan  Updegraff.    $1.50. 

V.  (English)   THE    WIDOWING    OF    MRS.  HOLROYD.     A    drama    in 
three  acts  by  D.  H.  LAWRENCE.    $1.00. 

VI.  (American)  PAPA.     An  amoral ity  in  three  acts  by  ZOE  AKINS.     $1.00. 

VII.  (American)  MR.  FAUST.     A  verse  play  in  five  acts  by  ARTHUR  DAVI- 

SOXFlCKE.      $1.00. 

VIII.  (American)  THE  RED  LIGHT  OF  MARS,  or  A  Day  in  the  Life 
of  the  Devil.     A  philosophical  comedy  by  GEORGE  BRONSON-HOWARD.    $1.25. 

IX.  (Russian)  THE  LIFE  OF  MAN:    SAVVA.     Two  plays  by  LEONID 
ANDREYEV.     Translated  by  Thomas  Seltzer.    $1.50. 

X.  (English)  THE    GODS    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN:     THE    GOLDEN 
DOOM:  KING  ARGIMENES  AND  THE  UNKNOWN  WARRIOR:  THE 
GLITTERING  GATE:    THE  LOST  SILK  HAT.     Five  plays  by  LORD 

DUNSANY.      $1.50. 

Ask  your  bookseller  to  send  you  the  volumes  of  the  Modern  Drama  Series  as 
they  are  published. 


